Last night I met up with Sarah Painter in Hollywood to see her improv teacher perform at the Upright Citizens Brigade. (See also: Amy Poehler, etc.)
The show was called “Sentimental Lady: Guilty Pleasures” and was easily the best $7 I’ve spent in quite some time. Absolutely hilarious. Seven people play off of each other’s wild ideas in a shot-gun style comedic rainbow, all born from some audience member’s confession:
What is your guilty pleasure?
One of the two guilty pleasures spoken of last night–each drawn out into a half-hour improv romp–included this:
“My guilty pleasure is eating lots of cheese, all of the time. I work at an upgraded version of Chuck-E-Cheese’s. It’s tough.”
After reflecting on improv comedy for approximately one hour + the time it takes to have a beer or two with Sarah’s improv classmates at the pub next door to UCB, I’ve heretofore determined that improv work consists of the following:
1. Nerd-core types
2. Using their vast knowledge of random subjects
3. To multi-task in hopes of perfect comedic timing
4. To support their teammates by always leaning in to the present idea;
5. Or, go confidently in direction of the punch-line.
Sarah definitely helped with the above definition.
We also decided that I should probably join her improv class sometime this year. I think that sounds like a magnificent idea.
Prior to meeting up for the show, however, at least two interesting things happened.
#1.
I was stopped by at least three, and no more than four foreign tourists driving nice rental cars, absolutely desperate for me to point them towards the parking lot for “that Hollywood sign.” You know the one.
I made sad faces at them all, and tried to mime my regrets:
Not possible to drive.
Must hike to sign.
I’m truly sorry.
All of them looked at me like I was either a mean liar, or a very confused Angeleno. I shrugged.
What are the travel books telling people about Los Angeles these days, anyway?
and #2.
Overcome by a used book store. I am such a sucker for used book stores. I found a slim book of poems by Galway Kinnell that I don’t yet have, and forked over the six dollars.
I sit outside the bookstore, adjacent all of the hip bars with their red outdoor tables sprawled about with so many hipster-refined gesticulations. Everyone is talking around the film industry and ex-boyfriends. I lean against a bookshelf (on wheels) displaying piles upon piles of various art shows and plays and improv shows. The bookshelf gives way (it is upon wheels, after all), as I’m attempting to read some poems feeling somewhat culture-defiant.
Does anyone read poetry anymore? In our visually-soaked culture, I want to know if anyone has time to stop and rest with some words*, now and again.
*When I don’t do this I become very irritable.
[Image by Karen]